


Blood is Lives

by Mother_of_Dragons



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: ...there's a lil blood, F/M, I use italics less than 10 times... if you don't count the notes, Michael eats you out ;), Michael is not a vampire... but you can imagine him as one if you wish, Short & Sweet, my first smut fic of the decade, oh I almost forgot... I had Sojourn Michael (aka the best Michael) in mind for this, you're on your period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_of_Dragons/pseuds/Mother_of_Dragons
Summary: Michael eats his fill.
Relationships: Michael Langdon/Reader
Kudos: 49





	Blood is Lives

**Author's Note:**

> _(In case you were wondering, 'blood is lives' comes from the new BBC adaptation of Dracula, starring Claes Bang)_

Each kiss is molten, near all-consuming and yet half formed; needy.

You let him lead you backwards, mind in a haze of confusion and ever increasing heady lust as your legs hit the back of your bed and buckle. He follows you down with no hesitation, nuzzles into the junction where your neck meets your shoulder - inhaling your scent as he does so - and actually, physically _growls_ , before pressing on.

He’s pushed your towel aside and is in the middle of peppering kisses down the valley of your breasts before you come to your senses and ease him off, chest heaving as you try to recollect your thoughts. You have to give Madelyn some credit - until today, you’d only ever seen Michael in passing, but she’s right, in the light of day he _does_ look terrible, almost even worse than on the night he’d first materialised from the depths of Tartarus (or wherever the hell, _pun definitely intended,_ he came from). 

You’d assumed he'd be just another one of her strays who’d hang around for a week or two and then mysteriously disappear - if only. From what you've heard, he's bad to the bone and seemingly determined on eating you both out of house and home-- but, he’s either been palming off his meals to Cerberus, or Madelyn’s (s)mothering just hasn’t stuck, because he’s practically wasting away in those ill-fitting sweats.

Tentatively, you reach out a hand, and he immediately leans into your touch, purple-rimmed eyes shutting briefly as you run your thumb over his cheek, jaw, _lips_.

He’s burning up, almost shaking even, and you get an odd (almost maternal) urge to set your feelings for him aside and look after him, if only for today.

You chalk it down to an evolutionary sense of self preservation, wary of what may happen if the Antichrist were to die on your watch, and an understanding passes between you two, without any need for words or questions or pretense. 

You gasp when his fingers find your clit, legs closing instinctively with the surge of embarrassment that runs through you from being spread so crudely, but Michael’s stronger than he looks and pins your leg to the side with one hand, slipping two fingers inside with the other. He keeps the intoxicatingly cyclical pressure on your clit going even as he crooks those somewhat clumsy (yet tirelessly enthusiastic) digits and all your inhibitions fly out of the open window with the last of your shame. 

You're completely at his mercy, writhing beneath him as you let out a steady stream of utterly debauched pleas which quickly devolve into moans as he works you over. 

You’d expected his hands to be softer - after all, he didn’t seem like the type to have ever thought of, let alone done, a day’s work - but the drag of the calloused pad of his thumb serves to bring you over the edge as he adds a third finger and you can’t help but cry out as a wave of white-hot pleasure ripples through you.

Fighting the urge to stay sedant and slip into a content doze, you prop yourself up on your elbows and watch him, head cocked to the side and panting softly as kneels back on his haunches and pulls his fingers free, smiling conspiratorially at the obscenely wet sounding pop that follows, and leaving a dull ache behind.

They come away red and gleaming and realisation hits just as he suckles them into his mouth, maintaining eye contact all the while - oh, _right._

Some part of you tells you that you should be repulsed by this - ashamed, even - but any nagging doubts you may have dissipate as you watch his adam’s apple bob & he, one by one, sucks each digit completely clean. The glint of mischief in his eyes is a sight to behold as he raises a slender brow, and you surrender yourself to him once again with a breathy " _yes"_ , throwing your head back when he ducks his down and shifts your hips upwards, lapping at the mess he’s left behind. The mess he caused.

Michael takes his time at first, his decidedly unforked tongue dipping between your folds agonisingly slowly until you rake your hands through his impossibly soft hair and press him closer, already begging for more. 

He shoots you a look through those lustrous curls, blown pupils encircled by only slivers of ice-blue iris, and you feel his smirk rather than see it as he complies, lingering only for a moment to run his teeth gently over your clit & successfully elicit from you a raspy, wordless cry before he moves on, nipping and sucking and licking in increasingly hurried motions. He’s ravenous, just like the first night, and it’s not long before you’re unravelling ( _again)_ beneath him - especially when his tongue swipes deliberately over your clit, still abuzz from his previous affections, and he keeps going even as you feel the steady thrum of your pulse begin to flutter and your voice grows hoarse, praise & expletives alike spilling forth from your lips like altar wine, until he eats his fill and sits up, plump lips smeared pink with your slick.

The image of him knelt before you persists even as you press your eyes shut, firmly imprinted in the forefront of your mind as you attempt to even out your breathing, too engrossed in the throes of your post-orgasmic afterglow to pay much attention to whatever he mumbles underneath his breath, or even notice the way his eyes flash black. 

Michael savours the last of you for as long as he can, and waits for your offering to take effect - hyperaware of each breath you take & the rise and fall of your chest, slowing incrementally.

A familiar rush of power surges through him at the thought of you so splayed out for him - so _willing_ \- and he barely even flinches at the sensation of liquid fire that spiderwebs through his veins, burning indiscriminately until each bruise heals - the hairs at the nape of his neck rising as he watches each hue fade - and his hunger is _finally_ sated. 


End file.
